Page 31 of The Good Duke (The Licentious Lords #1)

G od, she was radiant. She always had been.

Now, Simon, his hands filled with packages and trailing just behind Persephone, soaked in this carefree sight of her, as she’d not been once since their time together in London.

A slight, rosy hue filled her cheeks, and the same sparkle that had glittered in her luminous brown eyes since she’d allowed herself to enjoy being at Madam Colette’s hadn’t faded.

Even with her back to him, Simon could state that as an absolute fact.

Because he knew so much about her. She moved with that sprightly spring to her step that signaled her happiness and excitement. The wild way her hands flew about as she spoke punctuated each word rapidly flying from her lips.

Given their history, Simon wasn’t so arrogant or na?ve to believe he knew all the nuances that made Persephone, Persephone .

He’d never once doubted she’d grow into a clever, spirited, courageous woman—after all, she’d been all those things and more as a girl. Simon, however, had been born and raised in the peerage. He knew the young sons and daughters of respectable families ultimately went on to have their spirits crushed and become vapid shadows of the colorful people they once were.

But Persephone? Persephone shone brighter than ever before, and Simon yearned to learn everything about who she’d grown into as a person.

Or maybe some of that pretty blush she wore was a product of the climax he’d brought Seph atop Madam Colette’s finest satins.

A fresh wave of blood rushed to his cock, that randy organ as rock hard as it’d been since he had his mouth and fingers inside Seph…and how hard he’d remain until he…

Until you what?

Have her under you? Have her on her knees and her lush mouth wrapped around your length, and sucking you to completion?

As all the erotic mental images appeared like painted pictures in his mind, he fought an agonized groan—and failed.

Pausing mid-sentence, Persephone doubled back.

A frown replaced her radiant smile. “Surely, you of all people must agree?”

Agree with what?

He cursed his lust-filled thoughts—which still wouldn’t quit—and wracked his brain for whatever was the last thing she’d said.

Ultimately, he settled for an absolute truth.

“Persephone,” he drawled, “when have I ever disagreed with anything you’ve said?”

She let out an inelegant snort. “Oh, hush, with you and your new roguish ways.”

Persephone shifted back to the previous matter she’d been prattling on about.

As she excitedly spoke about the Royal Museum, Simon found himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell and even more and more in love with her.

Slowing to a stop, Simon stared wistfully after her.

And until Simon drew his last breath, he’d recall Seph as she was in this moment, at this time, eagerly recounting her favorite parts about the Royal Museum.

He could listen to her all day.

Even more, Simon wanted to listen to her all day—the ebullient sound of her lilting voice, her cheer-filled, infectious laughter. And God, the words as they fell from her lips. One thing was as certain as the rising and setting sun and turning of the tides: he’d forever be spellbound by Persephone’s zeal in speaking about things she believed in and was passionate about.

Some five yards ahead, Persephone stopped and looked back with a question in her eyes.

She tipped her head at an enchanting little angle.

Seph wished to know why he no longer joined her.

No words were necessary to convey that wondering. There never had been. Maybe that’s why she’d been the only one whom he’d hardly ever stammered in front of.

“ You ,” he mouthed.

As if searching for another possible someone he might be speaking to, Persephone glanced about.

When she looked back at Simon, she pressed a palm against her chest. “ Me? ”

Simon found himself walking closer and stopped only when they were but a pace apart. “You, Seph,” he murmured, “it was always you.”

Always and forever.

Confusion creased her brow. “I don’t…?” She shook her head. “What are you…? I don’t understand,” she finally settled for.

It is time she knew.

He’d waited their entire lives to tell her exactly what lived in his heart, and if she still did not share those sentiments, he’d spend each and every waking moment doing everything in his power to make her love him at last.

Simon closed that last space between them, so their boots touched.

He slid his palm about her nape, and he felt her muscles soften.

Her endlessly long eyelashes fluttered.

“Seph,” Simon began solemnly, “I need to tell you something. Something I should have said long ago.”

Persephone stared at him expectantly. “Yes?”

Simon released a steadying breath. “I—”

One of his footmen chose that absolute worst of time to hurry over to retrieve the packages from Simon.

Bloody hell.

Silently cursing that untimely interruption, Simon hurried to hand the ribboned boxes off to the young servant.

When he’d gone, Simon tried again, and this time he didn’t blurt out his words of love but delved into their past. “I still remember the day we met, Seph,” he said wistfully.

Persephone smiled. “We were ba—”

“ I was five,” he interjected. “In preparation for our first meeting, my father sat me down and went through his expectations of me. He knew I wouldn’t want to have a little girl about, especially one who was younger than me, and promised after we met, I would be free to go about my way.”

Enrapt, she listened on as if Simon revealed the deciphered contents of the Voynich manuscript.

“My father was right,” he mused. “Before you and your father even arrived, all I could think about was how much I wanted to avoid that meeting and how I couldn’t wait for it to end.”

“You were just a boy, Simon,” she said gently. “You—”

He pressed a fingertip against her lips, silencing the remainder of that absolution. “I couldn’t wait for it to end, Seph, because I hated being around anyone other than my father. I was so nervous about life and with people and was mortified by my stammer. All I wanted was to hide away from the whole world.”

Her eyes bled with hurt—for him. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered.

Simon cupped her face in his hands and lowered his brow to hers, so their eyes met. “Until you, Persephone.” His throat worked. “The day you stepped into my life, it was like… everything was suddenly right . You were three, but by God, you may as well have been three going on thirteen. You could have talked circles around London’s best barristers.’”

He sucked in a shaky breath.

“When I was with you, Persephone, I wasn’t lonely anymore. And I couldn’t be afraid because when you were near, you brought only happiness and light into my otherwise very dark and lonely existence.”

Tears filled her eyes.

Simon reached up and dusted away the errant drop that slipped down her cheek.

“Please, don’t cry,” he implored. “I hate it when you cry.”

He’d rather splay himself open than watch her suffer.

“I-I’m not.” Her voice broke and another two drops fell, making a liar of her.

“Seph,” he begged, continuing to dust those crystal remnants away, only for them to be replaced with others.

Persephone sniffled loudly. “They a-aren’t s-sad tears, Simon,” she said, her voice thick.

“I hate all your tears, love.”

“What about the ones when I laugh so hard, I weep?”

A laugh burst from his chest. “Not those ones, Seph.” He tenderly stroked her beautiful and beloved face. “I’ll allow those ones.”

They shared a smile.

Simon grew somber once more.

He registered the faint rattle of carriage wheels and ignored their distant rumble. His gaze remained locked, fixed and focused on his friend and lover, and a long overdue profession.

It’d been a lifetime. He’d finally say what he’d wanted and needed to say but had been too much a coward to utter—until now.

He took in a deep breath. “Persephone, I l—”

Persephone’s eyes went wide. All the color leeched from her cheeks, and her always healthy-hued skin turned to the color of death.

The speech he’d spent the better part of forever formulating flew out of Simon’s head.

The horror in Persephone’s face sent his gut churning; all his stomach muscles clenched in a painful, unrelenting knot.

Of a sudden, his cravat grew too tight, and Simon wrestled with the fabric—his efforts proved in vain. “Th-that is t-to say,” he croaked. Simon cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to s-say…”

By Persephone’s absolute detachment from the moment, he could have announced he’d been made the new King of England, and she wouldn’t have heard.

Frowning, he followed her gaze to a slow-moving, cerulean-blue barouche now ambling into the rear courtyard.

All his own insecurities vanished in an instant.

Fuck.

Madam Colette had warned she kept a strict schedule and required her highest-paying noble clients to honor the timeline she set to preserve the privacy of those gentlemen. In remaining here, talking with Persephone as he’d done, he’d inadvertently set Persephone up in the worst possible way.

“Come,” Simon said gruffly, even though he knew it was too late.

That she and Simon had been caught in the back entrance of Madam Colette’s—the place only entered and exited by a gentleman and his mistress.

Persephone remained fixed, her previous joy-filled expression fraught with shock and horror.

“I promise,” he said quietly. “It will be all right.”

If need be, he’d burn down every corner of London to keep anyone from whispering.

Stricken, Persephone didn’t hear him. For how silent and motionless she’d gone, she may as well have looked into the eyes of the serpent-headed Medusa.

“Seph,” he implored as the conveyance drew several yards from Simon’s. “Let’s leave this…” Place.

His words trailed off as he followed Persephone’s unblinking gaze to the opulent carriage that rolled to a stop near Simon’s.

The exquisitely and uniquely painted conveyance would have been enough to catch any person’s attention, but it was not, however, that grand horse-drawn vehicle, but rather the seal upon it that drew Simon’s gaze.

A familiar seal—one Simon knew all too well.

And with dawning horror, and in a moment that somehow seemed to move infinitely slow and dizzyingly fast, Simon stared on as that shiny blue door was opened, and the gentleman stepped out.

The very last gentleman Simon wished to see in his goddamned life.

And possibly the only man Persephone wanted to.

The Marquess of Bute stepped down from that magnificent carriage. The gentleman reached up and handed down a statuesque, scandalously clad brunette beauty.

Lord Bute turned and froze.

The infuriatingly good-looking marquess alternated a flinty stare from Persephone to Simon. An intense, fevered light glinted in the marquess’s dark eyes. Rage sent Lord Bute’s nostrils into a full flare.

Bute growled. “You bastard! You’d escort Miss Forsyth here like this ?”

The gentleman’s mistress pursed her lips. “My lord ! Do remember yourself.”

They ignored her.

“Indeed, I would.” Simon looked down the length of his nose at the too-handsome-for-his-own-bloody-good fellow. “And as you can see, I have.”

Persephone gasped.

“You, cur,” Bute seethed. “I’ll kill you.”

A feral grin flickered on Simon’s lips. As bloodlust pumped through his veins, Simon flexed his fingers…and relished the prospect of taking the other man apart with his bare hands. “Oh, I’d love to see you try.”

As one, Bute and Simon charged at each other.

A pair of high-pitched cries went up around the shop.

Just before Simon had the gratifying pleasure of burying his fist in Bute’s face, Persephone rushed to put herself between he and Bute.

“Do not , Simon!” she exclaimed, placing a hand on the duke’s arm. “Do not.”

Since her father’s death, Persephone’s life could have been aptly categorized as a complete and total nightmare.

She’d lost her dear father. Then the home and only village she’d ever known. Every day since, she’d worked more than she lived. She’d given her heart and virtue to a treacherous rogue.

Persephone could count on one hand the wonderful moments—and all of them would come back to Simon.

She’d been so very confident there couldn’t be a misery greater than any of the previous others she’d suffered.

Only to find herself living an actual nightmare that, in all her wildest imaginations, she couldn’t have conceived. One where her former lover was about to come to blows with Simon, her best friend and current lover. And also the gentleman who sought to marry Silas’s exquisitely beautiful, clever, and kind sister.

Nauseous, Persephone caught Simon by the arm. His already tightly coiled muscles bunched under her fingers.

In a bid to reach through Simon’s sharp, hostile focus, she spoke his name with a greater sense of urgency. “ Simon! ”

Persephone’s voice seemed to reach him.

Simon blinked slowly, and his lucid gaze shifted to her.

“Seph,” Simon began quietly.

Seething, Persephone steered them away from Lord Bute. “Not a word, Your Grace .” She didn’t want to hear it.

Simon’s brashness of before gave way to a suitable circumspection.

A little too late. Nor did she believe his fake penitence for a minute. Not a single one. He’d grown thoroughly comfortable in the ducal skin he’d inherited.

Sure enough, he inclined his head. “Persephone, I’ll have you know—”

“Simon,” she whispered, “I do not want to hear you speak a blasted word until I’m done. Am I clear?

“Ye—” Simon caught himself and gave her the answering silence she’d demanded.

Apparently, dukes could be tamed after all, because he remained prudently silent and stayed that way.

When she’d put some five or so paces between them and Silas, Persephone gripped Simon’s arm more tightly and urged him to stop.

Folding her arms, she looked up at him.

Simon pulled at his cravat. “Am I free to speak?” he ventured.

Persephone gave a curt nod.

“I hate you’ve had to see Bute and have your outing ruined because—”

“You think I’m upset with Silas ?” she cut him off, incredulity creeping into her voice.

A vein bulged at his temple. The evidence of his annoyance gave her pause.

Was he truly angry with her ?

Or perhaps Simon carries some feelings for you, and he dislikes the familiarity with which you speak Lord Bute’s given name? a silent voice tempted Persephone with that hopeful thought. Or maybe you’re just hoping where hope doesn’t and shouldn’t exist.

“You’re angry with me ?” he demanded on a furious whisper, proving hers had merely been wishful thinking.

“Who should I be angry with?” she snapped.

Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps the bloody bastard who broke your heart and moments ago threatened to kill me.”

“What did you expect, Simon?” she shot back. “You were baiting him and what’s worse is you did so at my expense.”

That he’d done so with Silas was insupportable.

Her fury spiraled. “How did you believe the marquess—a devoted brother—would react when he discovered his sister’s almost bridegroom at the back entrance of the most selective modiste in London with a woman whom you employ?”

A sharp, caustic laugh escaped Simon. “I assure you, brotherly devotion is not the source of Bute’s ire.”

She frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

His gaze grew cryptic. “I am not suggesting anything.”

The anger went out of Persephone, and her shoulders slumped.

“You let him believe I’m your mistress, Simon.” She didn’t bother to hide the hurt in her voice.

He drew back. “I didn’t…”

Tears threatened.

“You did ,” she finished when he didn’t complete the rest. “You more than hinted at it. What would possess you to do that, Simon?”

“Seph,” he said, his voice laced with anguish. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I didn’t realize…”

Except…

She rocked back on her heels.

Oh, God.

Isn’t that precisely what you are?

They’d made love and pleasured one other in other wicked ways. She’d allowed him to squire her about Town. He’d taken her to a museum and then brought her to Madam Colette’s.

I am his mistress.

Persephone blanched.

“Seph?” Simon asked concernedly.

“Do not worry,” she said, taking a hasty step away. “I will fix this.”

“Fix—?”

Before he finished his question, she headed back to Silas. At some point during or after the melee, his paramour had gone, and he now stood alone.

Lucky woman.

The whole time she approached, Silas studied Persephone with a peculiar expression. When she stopped enough distance from Silas to meet his cryptic gaze, Persephone drew in a deep breath.

“I know how this looks, my lord,” she said softly.

An emotion that looked very like sadness glinted in his eyes. “My lord?” he mused. “So…formal.”

Confused by his reaction, she cleared her throat.

“Silas,” she started this time, addressing him by his given name, “as I said…I understand how this must look.” Persephone grimaced. “I know how His Grace made it appear, and I cannot account for why he did such a thing but—”

Realizing she rambled, Persephone stopped. She took in another steadying breath. “All that to say, you have my assurance I am not his mistress. Our fathers were dear friends. His Grace and I, we practically grew up in the same nursery together. And Silas? I can also promise”—Persephone touched a hand to her heart—“as someone who has been friends with His Grace since I was in leading strings, the duke will be a good husband to Isabelle.”

“Do you think that is all I care about, Persephone?” He gave his head a wry shake.

Persephone stared at him in confusion. “I don’t…?”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying?” he asked in a gentle way, completely devoid of any rancor. “Then, please, allow me to state it plainly.”

The softness vanished from his tone. “To my very core, I loathe the idea of you living with Greystoke.” Silas’s eyes blazed with emotion. “Since I saw you together with him at the flower shop, I’ve been haunted. I love you, Persephone. I never stopped.”

His confession sent her reeling.

Silas wasn’t done.

His gaze burned into hers. “And whatever Greystoke is or isn’t to you? It doesn’t matter because I intend to woo you and marry you and bring you all the happiness you deserve.”

With that vow, Silas turned and marched back to his carriage, leaving Persephone stunned and staring after him.